


trompe l'oeil

by low_fi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bickering, Character Study, Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining... question mark?, Spoilers for everything, Unrequited... question mark?, Unresolved Emotional Tension, they don't know., they don't like each other but who else is there, you're the only one who can handle me trope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24326302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/low_fi/pseuds/low_fi
Summary: The illusion of depth where there is none; deception of the eye.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard & Peter Lukas, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 52
Kudos: 121





	1. 1996

**Author's Note:**

> this is most likely going to be a series of scenes from peter and elias' friendship-adjacent... thing ranging from the 80s up to peter's death. i liked this dynamic a lot, and wanted to write for it.  
> warning - this fic contains a lot of canon typical, but also possibly deeper delving into the lonely/mental health/dysfunctional relationships. it goes from humour to heavier content, so, bear that in mind and read at own risk :)

The world has ended, or been born, if you prefer. 

The world is the world. The changes it goes through make it what it is, proving at the same time it cannot be defined in any other way than "all that IS, HAS BEEN, and WILL BE" regardless of the shape of the rock upon which we stand or the rhythm of the ripples of stardust we will become. It was the world, and will be, forever; the most horrifying, empty nothingness imaginable is just as much 'the world' as a round blue planet drenched in pure, running life. 

Elias understands this. Elias knows it, but he also believes that if the world can be anything--anything at all--then he may choose its form for it. 

He is wrong.

*

Ibiza, 1996

"And it's perfect. The weather was perfect."

Peter scowls and leans back against the counter, his drink pleasantly cool in his hand. Small droplets of condensation trickle down the side and fall, bursting into star-shaped stains on the sun-bleached wooden planks. 

"Isn't it." "Isn't it?" "No, I meant--" Pointless, unmitigated laughter consumes the conversation happening a few feet away from him. Two young women in bathing suits rush past, clutching at each other's waists not to fall on the hot, slippery sand. 

They enjoy each other. It's no fun. He directs his attention to their friends, gathered in a small group further along the counter, and that's more like it--three women who hate each other engrossed in conversation, the purple of the sea in the evening and the darkening sky melting together behind them. Their forced smiles and skin shining with the day's aged sunblock and the same blonde hair, their faces and thoughts empty not for lack of possible emotion or depth, but the absence of the desire to explore them. They are good prey. 

The bar is tended by two men who look displeased with the patrons for simply being there. Save for the girls, there are almost no guests around---it's only the very beginning of spring, though the thick evening heat is already noticeable. 

Peter wipes the sweat from his eyelids and sighs. The hotel might yield better results, once the pool starts filling up with insecure men and unhappy women, hapless victims to the soft, comforting expanse of the Lonely. The lie of happiness they tell themselves, though it makes for no particular treat, will be a steady source of sustenance until he gets back on the Tundra. 

He has never despised luxury, but has no need for it, either. Luxury is no obstacle for loneliness, and he is rich; he always will be, but for now, he sits by the shitty bar on the half-empty beach, enjoying the occasional breeze as the sun slowly sets on hundreds upon hundreds of actors.

"Nice evening, isn't it?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a man.

A young man, almost lanky, who had sat down in the seat beside him unnoticed and is now looking at Peter, a faint smile about his mouth. He's wearing the most annoyingly patterned colourful suit Peter has ever seen. 

Peter is baffled. For a moment, he considers not responding at all, but his nature gets the better of him. 

"It is indeed," he says with a touch of flat irony, because he knows what the stranger is doing, but hasn't decided if he will allow it yet. There is no harm in being friendly, as long as he gets to be a little cruel too. 

"Perfect for a getaway," the stranger continues, leaning an elbow on the counter and tucking a hand under his chin. 

Peter realises, belatedly, that the man has an English accent. He thinks to remark on it - oh, a fellow countryman, how nice - but there is something about the notion, a kind of brotherly undertone he feels is misplaced. He's curious where the stranger will take this conversation. He is not in the mood to steer it just yet.

There is nothing remarkable about the man, really--his tone is easy, but the context gives it suggestion. Peter turns his head to look the stranger in the eye and deem, properly now, if he's worth his time.

He is immediately struck by the thought that he knows him. Passed him on the street, sat across the room from him in a cafe.

Met those eyes - dark, brown eyes - before. 

He was going to say something, but forgot it. He sighs.

"I'm not on holiday." 

"Oh?" 

"My ship is being repaired in the port."

The stranger smiles fondly. It's not the usual response; most people get animated and annoyingly excited when they hear 'my ship', start asking questions. Instead, the stranger leans in and asks:

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Peter straightens up a little and looks at him properly, now. The man is not as lanky as he initially thought - lithe, but broad in the shoulders, and possibly not as young as he thought, either. He looks like he's in his twenties, but there's something just escaping Peter's notice, a feeling which does not translate. 

"Sure," he says slowly, "Why not?"

The stranger beams and orders in Spanish, and a moment later two glasses filled with alcohol and syrup and all kinds of things are set down before them. It's hard to say exactly what's in there. He doesn't really mind. 

"I'm Peter," he says, picking up his glass and turning in the previous one. He does not offer his hand. 

The stranger's eyes go a little wide.

"Oh, how rude of me," he smiles again, pointing playfully to himself, "Elias." 

Peter raises an eyebrow and looks away, sipping his new drink. It burns his throat.

"Pretty name." 

Elias--laughs again. He doesn't have a nice laugh. Peter never thought someone could be bad at laughing, but if they were, it would sound something like that. 

"Thank you, I think so too," Elias says once his bout of laughter is over, "Elias. E...lias. Much better than 'James'." 

Peter almost drops his drink. 

Barely, he manages to keep himself still. 

"'James' is ruined for me," he says, intently watching the sea. 

Elias makes an understanding noise.

"Shitty ex?" 

It does take some self-control not to laugh.

"No--," Peter settles his back against the bar, "No, he's just a friend. Well, not a friend. An acquaintance, really. He's this... annoying, squirrely little man. His favourite thing to do is have fun at other people's expense."

"My," Elias gasps, "He really does sound awful. But you can hardly be a saint yourself," he crosses his legs and performs some elaborate trick where he braces his elbows on the bar, tucks his foot under the footrest of his barstool, and scoots it closer to Peter's before sitting back down without ever really having stood up. 

Peter looks at him, one more time. 

He does recognise him. He works at the Institute--except he used to wear glasses, thick, silver-framed things. 

And his eyes used to be blue.

Peter suddenly finds himself annoyed at the freshly re-christened Elias keeping up his stupid little game. 

"Me?" he sips his drink, "I'm not a saint, no, but put me next to that James, that really puts things in perspective. But I shouldn't go on. I feel kind of bad for him, really--"

Elias opens his mouth. "All right--"

"It's just that for the longest time, I was under the impression he had a thing for me," Peter contorts his face and stares at the sky like he's trying to remember some old detail, "Very sad. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind it, except it was a little awkward, is all. I--"

"You bastard," Elias has apparently found his voice, and he's both shocked and awed.

He chokes out a laugh, and then Peter finally allows himself to laugh with him, strong and uproarious. 


	2. 1988

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the support :)  
> EDIT: the date has been changed to better fit canon. Everything else should work fine.

Moorland House, Kent, 1988

James isn't sure he likes him.

They drink light, bubbly champagne as the evening turns to night, and the air slowly grows cold around them. It's quite an occasion, and James is a guest of honour; it would be impolite to hide out on the balcony with the Lukases' pride and joy, if not for the fact they are Lukases, this is Moorland House. 

And it is a beautiful home. Dark wood and a deep, sad indigo rule the rooms; nothing here is younger than a decade, for to have a place at Moorland House, it must first be stewed in silence and steamed with loneliness. There is a sense of history to it, and the melancholy that comes with it, amplified tenfold by the whispered conversations, intensely blank looks, and sad, fish-eyed children. 

James has been here many times; he visited Mordechai here, in the previous century, though he has since established himself in most Lukases' minds as simply 'and old friend of the family'. If they knew, they would only burn themselves on the flaming heat of the Eye. 

With one exception.

The occasion being celebrated tonight is that on this day, ten years ago, Peter Lukas was initiated. He is now thirty, and James has finally set aside a moment to take this risk - Peter is the most promising of them, and the only one James ever considered for the bearing of such a secret. Now, it's only a question of watching as he thinks carefully about his answer, revelling in the seconds he spends crushed by the knowledge. 

"Well, then. It is, I suppose, good to meet you," Peter says, in the end, "Properly meet you." 

He sounds sincere. It's surprising for a Lukas to celebrate someone's company; James writes it off as cultural custom, or Peter's oddly cheery personality, or the alcohol, or another of a thousand reasons that are not the otherwise self-evident 'he likes you'. Lukases do not like, just as they do not love. It is not their part to play in the world. 

James nods, holding back his stubbornly giddy, childish excitement. 

"The pleasure is mine."

Peter huffs a small laugh. "I still have to think."

"I can go." 

"No," he idly scratches at his cheek, "It wouldn't do much, anyway, would it?"

Indeed, but Peter knows that. 

"You have to understand, James, four years we've known each other--I thought I has an idea of who you were. This is a very surprising development." 

James furrows his brow. "Is it really?"

Peter raises his eyebrows and nods as if to say yes, I would say so.

He softens.

"I've known for a while now that if it was ever going to be someone, it would be you." 

Peter smiles at that, a satisfied kind of smile that's less sweet and more gratified. He's always liked being important, though James isn't sure he knows it. He would likely deny it. 

"How do the new parts fit, then? Everything running smoothly?" Peter asks, half-maliciously. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" James laughs.

"Well, you have to have an adjustment period," he raises his eyebrows, "I'm curious." 

"Be sure to tell me if I'm glitching," James scoffs, "No, Peter, I'm quite well. I haven't had any trouble since I began." He takes a moment to think back. "Well." 

Peter blinks at him. "Oh?" 

It's such a pleasant evening. It's easy to float away in the current of memories when there are so many to draw from, stored with loving chaos in his mind. 

"I may have... tried on a female body," he reveals, like a fun party story, "Briefly." 

Peter's eyebrows fly up his forehead.

"What?"

James laughs, for the first time in a while a truly spontaneous, embarrassed laugh, and hangs his head to hide the honesty. He's had too much to drink. He sets his glass on the handrail. 

"What was it like?" Peter asks, sounding intrigued. 

James can't blame him. He wants to say something sharp and witty - make a cutting joke of it - but finds himself considering his answer too long. 

"Strange," he says, in the end. 

Peter is not satisfied. "Surely, but was it bad or good?"

He clearly expects the latter. Again, James cannot find it in himself to be amused. 

"Bad," he squints in discomfort, "It's not as easy as you'd think."

"What, being a woman?" 

"No. Being in the body. The centre of gravity is... skewed," he tries to gesture to himself, finds his hand falling to his chest, "It's... uncomfortable. It was a greater change than I was ready for, I think."

Peter thinks on this for a while, twirling his champagne flute absently between his fingers. 

"How long did you do that for?"

"About a day. I was wasteful back then." He draws in a breath. "Though I'm not opposed to another attempt. Trial and error, after all." 

Peter wrinkles his nose. "Do you want to?"

"I'm not sure. There's other things to consider. Social norms, behaviours." 

"You don't strike me as the kind of man who doesn't know what he wants."

James tuts. "Peter, there is no joy in making decisions quickly. It's preferable, of course, but it's also... uninspired. When you know as much as I do, decisions are refreshing. I like to relish my facts. Gather and sort them."

Peter considers that for a long moment. 

"That does fit."

Something in his tone shifts the mood. James watches his profile. Thirty; maybe he's too young. He has a proud nose. A neatly trimmed, short beard, and glossed black hair, almost blue in the moonlight. He wears dark colours and keeps good eye contact, though he's been staring at the moors spreading out beneath them for most of their conversation. 

"Do you often do things simply because you want to?" James asks. 

Peter huffs something that's not quite a laugh, but carries the mirth of one. James realises he might've flashed his cards and withdraws, turning to face the view as well. 

"Depends," Peter shakes his head, "There are situations in which it won't matter. People--with whom it will. It's forgetting the distinction that's dangerous."

He looks at James. 

"You're don't take risks because you're bad at it. That's all there is to it, I'm afraid." 

"Are you implying I was mistaken in telling you my name?" 

"Of course!" Peter shakes his head, snickering, "Of course you were mistaken. You shouldn't tell anyone, especially not me. We were on good terms, James, but now?" He tips his head. "You've doomed us to partnership." 

James blinks, growing annoyed. "That was rather the plan, yes." 

"I despise it," Peter sighs, "I despise you've involved me in it. But, since it can't be undone," he raises his glass for a clink.

James obliges, and the sound rings prettily in the still night air.

Peter smiles. James has known his family for over a century--and Peter smiles far too much for one of the Lonely. 

Later, as James is being driven back home near midnight (surely well past; midnight is the last hour he remembers seeing on the clock) he leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes. 

There is a painting in Moorland House, near the end of the gallery. It's an old painting, very well preserved, but still cracked like glass in places where the paint gave out. It depicts three men, one dressed in dark, simple clothes and the two others in lighthearted beiges and yellows; the plaque on the frame titles it M. Lukas with Friends. This plaque, however, is only from 1920; it replaced the original, which identified the 'Friends' as a 'J. M.' and 'R. S.'. 

The Lukases knew who the third, seemingly unremarkable man was. During a brief period of disagreement, one of them had even covered his eyes with a cloth, and so he had stayed there, like the Lady Justice, for a decade or so. James, of course, would've had no issue looking out of the eyes of Mordechai or Robert should the need arise, but he had not, in fact, ever watched from that painting. Until today.

He looks out, into the dim gallery, coloured in silvers and greys with the faint light of the chandelier. 

Before him, he sees Peter. 

He's sitting in a chair he must have carried in, his legs crossed and pose almost mirroring Mordechai's. He doesn't look that similar - takes after his mother more - but something about the way he holds himself, the shape of his shoulders, is familiar. 

Peter's eyes briefly meet James' before he returns his attention to an old leather file holder. There is a pile of discarded letters on the floor beside him, written in a narrow, elegant hand. Jonah's hand. 

James gets unreasonably offended at the breach of privacy; he inhales sharply and almost pulls himself out of his focus, but manages to remain, his fists clenched and neck tense.

Peter is reading, his face distant and still, his eyes busily skimming the text. He looks older like this, his features not animated, mouth not smiling. For the first time, James wonders if actually had made a mistake. Either way, he would be a hypocrite to talk about breaches of privacy now. He ponders, for a few more seconds, what to do; but it's obvious.

He withdraws. 

The car is stopping. He shakes off the last of his discomfort and begins the process of pushing it to the back of his mind, gently and systematically storing it away. There is nothing that can be done, now. 


	3. 1999

London, 1999

The turn of the century. 

This is, arguably, one of the more ridiculous things Elias has been excited about in his life. And he is not so much excited as he is charmed; the whole world is coming together to celebrate, billions of people thinking about the same thing; that shiny '2000', like the start of a new era, a direct passageway into something better. 

He feels a little lost in this rush, but for the most part, he plans to spend the night quietly, sipping champagne, enjoying his own company. He will close his eyes and soak in everything he can See, everything that he can possibly lay eyes on at once. He did consider travel, very briefly; he's been all over Europe, frankly, and it all looks vaguely the same. 

He searches for anything that could draw his mind away from the nagging problem at hand; Peter didn't pick up the phone. 

Elias bites his lip and waits. Waits some more. Calls again. 

"Jesus, what do you want? I'm due to set out in a few hours." 

"A," Elias' pauses for effect, "privately owned space station." 

Peter pauses. "And what about it?"

"Your family," he grits, "Is building a space station." 

"Nathaniel is, yeah."

Elias almost snaps. "Were you planning on telling me?" 

"No?" 

"Peter." 

"Elias," he mimicks, "Look, today is not a good day for me, and I don't want to talk to you. If you call me again, I will chuck my mobile in the sea and proceed to get eaten by sharks." 

Elias raises an eyebrow. "There are no sharks in the North Sea." 

"Yes, there are," Peter shoots back, offended. Elias forces down a hot flush of irrational anger. "And stop Watching me." 

He clenches his teeth. It's only a small mistake. It's nothing, an answer given without thinking. A quip. He knew there were sharks. He's sure he did. 

There's a beep and he glances down at the small screen to see the call has been terminated. The anger rushes over him with full force, like the returning tide, and he carefully visualises crushing his phone in his fist and throwing it against the wall. 

When he's done, he places it gently on the desk, making sure it lies parallel to his calendar. 

A space station. 

*

Ostend, 1999

He has never been to the Belgian coast, and that seems like a shame. He doesn't know why Peter is there, or why he's apparently planning on sailing alone in December, but he throws a winter coat and boots in the back seat of his car and drives.

He drives for almost four hours. 

The sky is slowly beginning to turn red when he gets to Ostend. The new year is still quite far away, and the coastline city seems to be functioning as normal; when he gets out near the port, he spots strings of leftover Christmas lights, some tacky signs, and a few people wading through the snowy brown slush of the street. Little else. He steps out onto the smooth concrete and lets the bone-chilling wind swat at him in great, broad strokes as he revels in the change of scenery. He had stared at the sea on his way here, but now it stretches before him like a glistening tear track in the pale, washed-out gold of the sand. 

He takes his coat from the back seat, pulls it on. Then gloves. He locks up, takes his phone from his pocket, and calls.

*

He's been walking back and forth along the beach to keep warm for about twenty minutes, swinging his shopping bag back and forth, when he gets the text. He sighs and turns around to walk back. It's the middle of winter, and he is really beginning to feel it. 

The beach is wide and completely empty. There is a whitish fog suspended all around him, like a cloud had gracefully settled over the town and covered the area with its thick, cold blanket. When he breathes, he can taste the chill on his tongue, smell the rain. 

He walks, leaving footprints in the sand. It shifts tediously under his boots and makes it difficult to stay upright, so he keeps to the stripe of wet along the beach, just shy of the water, dancing a little whenever it comes close. 

He reaches the port this way, and hops up onto the wooden planks. The fog is much clearer here, only a faint veil of grey in the distance; he walks along a row of sailboats, trying to spot a familiar figure. 

"Elias," a voice pipes up from just nearby. 

He jumps. 

Peter is sitting on the nose of a pristine white sailboat, one of the smaller models on display in the port; the whole thing is slightly tipped forward under his weight, and bounces back into place when he rises to his feet to hop down onto solid land.

Elias walks up. 

Peter flips out a silver cigarette box and offers one to him, but Elias declines with a shake of his head. Peter shrugs and lights his own, a flash of orange and red in the muted tones of the harbour. 

"How long was the drive?" he asks, spewing smoke from his nose. 

"Four hours." 

"Worth it?"

Elias looks him over. He seems tired. Nothing outwardly noticeable, but there is a muted sense of displeasure to him that you can only really notice after knowing someone for a long time. 

"Of course," Elias says, and holds up the shopping bag, clearly tight around the shapes of two bottles.

Peter shakes his head and takes a long drag. Elias watches the ring of burning paper climb suspiciously high in one go.

"Talking to you is like being in a crowd," Peter breathes, the smoke from his mouth mixing with the fog.

"You don't mean that!" Elias laughs and proceeds to energetically circle the boat, looking for the name. 

He finds it. The sailboat is, of course, called the Taiga. 

"I wanted to talk to you about your family project," he says as he's walking, "Very interesting stuff."

"Go home, Elias," Peter sighs. 

"What, and risk celebrating the new millennium on the M25?" Elias frowns at him, "No. I'm spending New Year's with you. I brought champagne." He wiggles the bag around once more, for emphasis, and the bottles clink and chime together. 

Peter firmly takes it from him and climbs back onto the boat, then disappears in the small cabin. Though not without struggle, Elias uses this opportunity to discreetly pull himself up after him, his hands clutching the hard, wiry ropes as he struggles to keep his balance. He feels the entire sailboat strain under his weight and quickly sits down. It's been a while since he last felt this unsafe. 

Peter reemerges, gives him one disapproving look and gets to work on the ropes. Elias isn't planning on helping him, or making any effort to understand (or Know) what each rope does, so he just sits pretty as the motor stutters to life and the sailboat begins its long, arching way out of the marina. 

"Watch the boom," Peter says quietly, his gloved hand resting on the tiller.

The boom, which is apparently a giant metal rod attached at a right angle to the mast, does not fill Elias with any particular sense of dread, but he assumes Peter warned him for a reason. He keeps an eye on it. 

It's cold. The water is a perfect grey, undisturbed by colour in even the slightest degree, and though it looks like it should be properly snowing, only small flecks of white hover gently around them in the still air. The sound of the motor slowly dies out and Peter gets up to unfurl the sails, which until now had been crushed into rolls of fabric around the boom and in the front of the boat. The giant triangles of white blind hard enough to make Elias look away. 

"Do you know how to swim?" Peter asks over his shoulder. 

"No?" he cocks an eyebrow, "It wasn't exactly common in my day." 

Peter nods at the companionway.

"Go get a life jacket from the cabin." 

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I'm not wearing a life jacket," he snaps. 

Peter steps back down to the cockpit and does something to the boom; it comes swinging around at terrifying speed as the sailboat tilts off axis. Elias yelps and grabs the nearest rope, curling his entire arm around it, his heart pounding. He can see the cold, dark water at a strange angle, almost under him, and his stomach flips at the vertigo. 

"All right!" he says sharply, "Fine!" 

"Idiot," Peter chuckles, shaking his head, and evens out their course.

The boom comes back around, and Elias ducks just before it slams him in the forehead. He decides that this was, in retrospect, a terrible idea. 

He very much does not want to get up, but he forces himself to, and walks the few steps it takes to get to the cabin on wobbly knees. Everything is moving under him; it doesn't compare to a ferry, or even the Tundra, whatsoever. 

The inside of the cabin is beyond cramped. He wonders how Peter managed to get his giant shoulders through. Nonetheless, there is a life jacket there--just the one. He picks it up, walks back out into the cockpit, and puts it on.

It smells of things left wet for too long. He scrunches his nose.

"Peter," he says, glancing around, because Peter has wandered off--and he's not holding the tiller. It's braced against a bundle of thick rope, just barely tied down. Even to Elias, that seems unwise. 

There doesn't seem to be much wind, or at least the sails aren't catching it fully, because they're moving at a slow, almost leisurely pace through the undivided expanse of grey water and sky. There are no other ships on the water, and the view is the same in every direction except for behind them. If it weren't for the fact Elias knows Peter can't throw him into the Lonely even if he wanted to, he would be getting suspicious. 

Overall, it's depressing. It's also very beautiful. 

"Peter," Elias repeats, and it comes out deeply affected by the fact he's pulling himself up onto the wet plastic of the tiny deck. 

There is barely enough room to walk, and no flat surfaces. He holds onto the grabrail and makes his way over to Peter, who is sitting at the front of the boat, his legs hanging over the edge. 

Elias takes a moment to consider. Then, he sits down beside him. The spacing of the stanchions makes it so that they end up flush together. 

Peter hooks his arms over the taut metal lifeline and lets his hands hang loosely over the water. Elias pulls in a slow breath and focuses all of his energy to ask the question. 

"What's the matter?"

Peter scowls and in the next second, he's gone - just gone, in a puff of mist that flows over Elias with the wind. He closes his eyes. 

"Don't be a child," he says. 

Reluctantly, Peter reappears. The fog weaves itself together and slides over his skin like it's painting him on the air itself. So much of him is gone. He is hollow inside, and Elias should know that--but he suddenly feels uncertain. He put himself in this situation willingly, but risks are tricky, and they tend to multiply. If you calculate with only one in mind, you might as well not do it at all.

"You wanted to know about the Daedalus," Peter says.

Elias hesitates. It's a tasty distraction--it's not even a distraction, it's why he drove four hours to get here in the first place. He is not here to find out why Peter's feeling glum.

"I did," he confirms, "And I would like to know why you didn't even think to mention it to me."

"You'd only try to twist it for your own purposes," Peter says in the tone of someone who can't be argued with and knows it. "It's our business. Stay out of it."

"You know I can't do that. Realistically speaking." 

Peter clicks his tongue. "I'm only surprised it took you this long to find out." 

"I..." 

Elias bites his lip. Peter's trying to annoy him, and it's working. 

"So, I'm not invited, then?" he tries a different approach, attempting to pick up Peter's gaze as he hooks an elbow over the lifeline and tilts his head sweetly, "Not allowed to play with the big boys?" 

"Stop pushing," Peter enunciates, "No, you're not invited, because you have nothing to contribute."

Elias frowns at him, but all that does is elicit a smile. "So it's about the money?"

Peter gives him a slightly less grumpy look. 

"What happened to your fortune, anyway?"

He surely wants a story of gambling. Drama. Lost wagers. 

Elias looks at the water. 

"It ran out," he says. 

"What?"

"I never invested in anything. I never married, so I never had any children to do it for me." He shrugs. "Mordechai, he had a keen eye for that sort of thing. He knew--"

"Don't--," Peter holds up a hand, "Talk about my ancestor like you knew him." 

Elias blinks. "I did know him." 

"I know that. But don't." 

He looks at Elias. Elias looks back at him.

"Why?"

Peter rolls his eyes. He doesn't do that often; most of the time, he just looks away and manages his annoyance that way. He's being abrasive on purpose. 

"Come, now," Elias sways to the side, then swings back and shoves him in the shoulder with his own. 

"Elias," he says heavily, "I wanted to be alone." 

"You didn't have to sail back into the marina to pick me up."

"Well, I'm certainly regretting it."

Elias is sick of him.

Just then, it begins to rain; only a few light drops at first, then a full downpour. Peter swears. He's up on his feet before Elias has even figured out what to hold on to, his great big arms working hard to pull the sails down. Elias scrambles to his feet and hops down to the cockpit, then ducks into the cabin.

Peter joins him a few minutes later, dripping wet and red-faced with effort. He forcefully closes the hatch behind him, sending errant drops flying through the air, and sits on the small bench opposite the one Elias took. They're both filling up the cramped space.

Elias takes the stupid puffy orange jacket off and casts it aside. Peter undoes his coat, takes his gloves off, and runs a hand through his slightly greying black hair. It's slick and shiny with water; stray curls cling to his forehead.

"The world is loud," he says over the drum of the rain. 

Elias studies him carefully. "You mean the celebrations." 

"I thought I'd go somewhere where I didn't speak the language. I thought that would help. But it's all the same, at least tonight," he drags his hands over his face, "Oh, I hate it." 

"You sailed here?" 

"Yes," he sighs, "And I'll sail back tomorrow. I have to be in Portsmouth in two weeks." 

"Ah." 

Elias looks down, at his boots on the damp wooden planks. 

"What time is it?" he asks. 

Peter pulls his sleeve up to check his watch. 

"Almost eleven." 

"Truly?" slips out his mouth.

He shifts in his seat and takes a look about the cabin; there is nothing really here, except for items to fulfil health and safety regulations, and a few old brochures for tourist locations that have been crumpled, folded up, and generally made illegible from perpetual and passionate disuse. 

Upon closer inspection, there's also a radio, a sleek business phone in a plastic bag, and another phone that looks like Peter has had it since 1972. Elias spots three books on a shelf, swollen where water must have seeped into the pages and dried. They're all instructional. Peter would likely rather die in a crowd than see himself reflected in another human being. 

"Shall we get started on the champagne?" Elias suggests after a moment, rubbing his hands together. 

Peter tilts his head to the side. "I thought you're supposed to pop it at midnight." 

"Well, yes, but that's why we have two," Elias points to the bag.

"We don't have glasses."

"Actually..." 

Elias opens the bag and produces first the bottles, then another, smaller bag containing a set of tacky, plastic champagne flutes. 

That earns him another faint smile. Peter reaches out for the bottle, and Elias passes it to him before opening the bag and taking out two flutes. He watches as Peter takes a swiss army knife out of the inner pocket of his coat and holds the bottle steady between his thighs to open it. The top pops off and foam trickles over his hand, dripping to the floor; he quickly catches it with a nearby cloth, wipes it down. 

"Very nice," he mutters, half to himself, and raises the bottle. 

The evenly swaying ship makes pouring two glasses of champagne something of a challenge. More is lost than not, but indeed, that's why Elias bought two. 

"I haven't eaten today," Peter mutters, the stream of champagne unevenly making it into the second glass as Elias hands move back and forth, back and forth, "I'm going to get drunk." 

"It's only champagne," Elias protests, but he hasn't had anything since breakfast. 

The boat sways. The flute nearly overflows. Elias' hands are sticky, and Peter is laughing. 

He sets the bottle down and holds it between his boots as he takes one of the champagne flutes and holds it up. 

"Am I supposed to give a speech?" 

"I think it's customary to have a toast."

Peter sighs. 

"Fine. To partnership despite many--," he gives Elias a look, "Many differences." 

Elias nods. "To putting up with each other for short periods of time once every few months." 

Peter clinks that immediately, and takes a thoughtful sip. Finally, the tension wears off; they talk softly, easily. 

When Elias dares peek back out of the cabin, he realises that the sky had gotten much darker while they were on the water. There hadn't been a visible sunset. Perhaps it'd been behind them, perhaps the clouds and mist had been too thick, but now the dark is palpable and chilling. 

"Peter," he calls over his shoulder, beckoning him out into the cockpit, "Look." 

Peter staggers up the companionway, hands braced on either side of the entrance. He looks. 

There are fireworks going off in the distance. The boat bobs gently on its anchor, but other than the occasional wave the water is still, reflecting the light show like a giant, rippling mirror.

Peter climbs up onto the deck. He sits with his legs hanging over the side, and Elias does a quick double take before going back for the second bottle. When he finally joins Peter, he finds himself disgruntled, sniffling and slightly drunk; in short, something of a mess. He dimly swears to himself never to do anything like this, ever again. He struggles with the bottle for a few moments, then gives up and passes it to Peter. Peter opens it and tosses the cork over his shoulder. 

Finally, Elias thinks to check his watch. He draws his sleeve back, only to find that it's fifteen minutes past midnight. 

"Peter," he says, nudging him, "We missed it."

Peter glances down at the watch and takes a swig of the champagne. He passes the bottle to Elias with a small, content sigh. 

"So we did." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you spot any glaring errors regarding sailing... do let me know. I had a great time writing this chapter, but my knowledge is still definitely lacking. thanks to inkandcharcoal for help and inspo. (and the hc that jonah can't swim)


	4. 2002

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of a heist chapter! a little bit of bouchard's 11, but there's just two of them, and it's a romcom. also, Elias reads leitners. Sorry if anything's confusing.

Rome, 2002

Their meetings, trips, and dinners are most commonly related to matters of business.

This does not mean Elias doesn't enjoy them, it doesn't even mean he shouldn't enjoy them--but his enjoyment is about as important as whether or not it rains in Dubai. 

(Of course, Elias is familiar with the so-called butterfly effect. He just pretends not to be.)

He doesn't give the fact it's just Peter and him much thought. Peter is of the Lonely, and wouldn't want to suffer any more company than he must; Elias is a necessary evil, and he is quite happy with that title. 

He has not, since roughly the early twentieth century, felt any particular ties to humanity as a whole. He lived one full lifetime and has not had the desire to live it again, differently; he had always done what he wanted to do, and no leftover hunger from those days remains in him. It's the smaller, less obvious things that get him now; the need to hear another person speak, the need to be heard. The need to share silence. The simplest things, welded into his bones and written into the code that makes him. The need for company. 

"Do your employees know what you do with their bonuses?" Peter asks him.

"What bonuses?" Elias shrugs, and smiles.

Rome is a city of preserved history living alongside a new world. The jagged bones of old structures stand, sealed off, in a maze otherwise packed with tourists; it is the urge to dig put on display, paired tastefully with the dreadful eye. 

There is a small pizza place by the Trevi Fountain which also sells ice cream - or gelato, as is the local fashion, and it was there, unable to focus over the constant chatter, the smell of food, the sun beating down on them, that Elias realised what pushed Peter into the Lonely. It is the disgust with humankind; not for thinking oneself better, but for seeing it in a light that while true... is also unpleasant. A thoughtless, senseless mass that is not inherently evil or cruel, but remains just monotone enough to trick a tortured mind into fear. They are all people. Some of them may even be enjoying themselves. But from the outside - where Peter always stands, and Elias now joins him - they are nothing but grime and sweat and raised voices. They are Corrupt. Bees in a hive; termites biting into the gentle wood of an ancient tree. It's not their fault. Termites don't seek to destroy, only to feed themselves. To have. To eat. 

"Nice view," Peter says, catching him looking out of the museum window.

They're waiting for the assistant to fetch his boss. They were supposed to be in the storage rooms beneath the museum by ten, but it's nearing ten thirty. 

"It is," Elias says, "I've been in Rome before, but it changes every year." 

The city is busy, endlessly busy. Hundreds of narrow, twining streets branch off in all directions. Termites. 

"Really?" Peter steps up next to him, and Elias already knows he won't see what Elias sees, won't understand. "It looks just the same to me."

Peter needs people. He needs them as much as the dirt needs the sky. 

"It'll soon be a ruined place," Elias says slowly, quietly, "The supposed height of civilisation, drowning in its own muck. This is not a criticism of the twenty-first century, mind you, it's far too early for it; and I'm certain it has always been like this. It's just..." 

He trails off. Peter makes a small noise of consideration. 

"It wasn't this bad before airplanes, though, was it?"

Elias smiles. "A point."

"Oh," Peter taps his arm, "Here she comes." 

The assistant is rushing their way, holding a ring of keys. 

"Very sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen, we're having a very busy month," she says nervously, glancing between them like she's not sure who the sponsor is. 

Peter flashes a smile. "We're fine. Lovely view you have here." 

"It is, isn't it?" she smiles back, but nothing about her face is relaxed, "I'm Liza Pirlo, I'm an assistant researcher here. You said you were inquiring after... a book?"

"Peter Lukas." Peter shakes her hand. Elias only dips his head. "This is my tagalong friend." 

"Associate," he corrects sharply.

Peter smiles. "Ex-husband." 

The researcher laughs a terrified, frantic sort of laugh and turns on her heel to lead them downstairs. 

"You wish," Elias grits from behind a smile. 

"I truly don't." Peter places a hand on his back and indicates a humble 'after you'. 

The book in question is, of course, a Leitner. It's more important than anyone involved in the handling of it knows.

"I understand you're doing excavations under your own building," Peter says in the lift, "Very exciting." 

The woman looks thrown off, but prevails. 

"Yes, indeed. One of the head researchers believes he has found traces of... remains... but there is only so much I can share with you at this point in time," her smile falters slightly. 

Elias clears his throat. Peter glances at him, then nods. 

The woman's mind is well-organized, but peppered with little thoughts that jump around on top of the dark wooden drawers and cupboards like errant bugs. They keep bumping into each other, twirling, bouncing between the ceiling and the floor; she is a busy, nervous person, constantly thinking about everything around her. She is thinking, for example, that she wishes she'd been better prepared for meeting with a sponsor; she wishes she could've sent someone else, and then she feels guilty about it. She's also idly wondering, in the back of her mind, if Peter had been joking earlier--she assumes not, because she thinks it unlikely two men who were not involved at any point can joke with each other in that way. She would be surprised. 

Her mind doesn't linger on anything. She's thinking, now, about holiday with somebody you love; seeing Rome for the first time, what it was like when she first came to work here from across the country. About what kind of apartment or hotel Peter can afford to stay at, and if his earlier comment about the view had been sarcastic. 

She then thinks about the cold, orange evenings, about eating ice cream, and about the sea. She thinks that for people as rich as Peter, it must be just like the movies; dressed in beautiful clothes, allowed to feel the wind and the sun on their skin and simply stop, for as long as they wish, with no consequences. She thinks about the nights and about the mornings, and the smell of fresh linen, and sharing a beautiful view; sharing a memory; sharing. 

And she also thinks, now, that she does like her work and doesn't want to get away from it. She thinks she has never really enjoyed long walks on the beach, and that her subtly jealous, yearning daydream is maybe not so much about holiday as it is ab...

"Elias," Peter elbows him in the ribs. 

Elias blinks and looks at him. They've arrived on one of the lower floors, and the woman is glancing back at them from outside the lift. 

"Right," Elias swallows and they step out together, making their way down the grey corridor. He keeps his voice low. "She doesn't know much more. Nobody except the man himself has actually seen any remains, but he claims to have scanned for them and gotten results. He's respected enough in the field that they're doing a small scale dig in the basement."

"So, we have what we're looking for?" 

Elias nods. "Yes, most likely." 

The storage section is large and grey, lit by white overhead lamps. 

"Excuse me," Elias pipes up, "How many people have read the book?"

The woman glances back at him. 

"Read it?" she asks, "No-one, I think. We've had it for a very long time, but most of the items on shelf B313 came from a wealthy patron who donated them in bulk a few years ago, and I'm ashamed to say we haven't sorted all of them properly yet. Right this way." 

She leads them along a dark corridor. 

"I don't think it's in there," Elias hums, raising an eyebrow at a poorly stored statue in the corridor. 

"Head researcher's office?" Peter asks quietly.

"Take a right, his surname's on the door. Girardi," Elias pats his shoulder and they swap places, so that Peter can veer around a turn. 

When the woman finally stops before the correct shelf, she turns and jumps upon seeing Elias behind her, alone. 

"My friend had to make a phone call," he says pleasantly, closing his mouth into a polite smile, "Please, do go ahead."

She swallows. 

"Are you sure? I thought..."

"No, by all means, he always takes a while," Elias waves a hand, "He's a bit of a chatterbox, isn't he? I mean, you wouldn't think it from looking at him, but he's really quite fond of the sound of his own voice." 

He tilts his head. The woman lets out a nervous laugh. 

"Um..." 

"In fact, he just doesn't shut up, does he?" Elias hooks his elbow onto a shelf and adopts a more relaxed pose, crossing his legs at the ankles and cocking a hip. "I'll tell you, these two weeks have been an absolute nightmare. He flies me in from London, private jet just because--who cares about the environment, hmm? Then I find out we have to stay a night in a motel before we can get to his apartment here in Rome. A motel, can you imagine? Well. I'm sure you can." 

The assistant awkwardly shifts her weight between her feet. 

"Anyway, we get to the apartment, and that's when he finally remembers that he didn't get another bed for me. And you know I'm not sleeping on the couch. So he sleeps on the couch, that one time, then goes on and on about his neck for three days. He doesn't really look it, but he hit fifty a few years ago, now, but he's completely fine sleeping on his... cot of a bed over on his ship. But it's always oh, Elias, you're so spoilt, oh Elias, you complain too much. He's just petty." 

He pauses for a proper breath and the woman manages to get a word in.

"The book is right over here."

She taps the container she's been standing in front of, then pulls it out and takes the cover off only to find that it is - unsurprisingly - empty.

"Oh," she says. 

"Oh," Elias repeats after her, "What a shame. You really need to file these things better." 

"I'm... I'm truly very sorry," she glances up at him, going pale, "I'm going to need some more time to find it, but I'm sure I can..." 

"I wouldn't worry about it too much." He flashes a smile. "Peter should be here any moment." 

She pales even more just as Peter returns, holding the book up like a trophy.

Elias takes the box out of the woman's hands and holds it up. Peter drops the book inside, then closes the box up with the top. 

"Now, you wish you knew what was happening, don't you?" Peter asks the woman in a calm, compassionate voice, "You wish you didn't feel so... out of it. So alienated. So--"

"We don't have all day, Peter," Elias sighs.

"Lonely." 

The woman is swallowed by a faint, gentle puff of fog, and in less than a second she is gone. 

"There." Peter claps his hands clean, as if after a job well done. "Cameras?"

"Shouldn't be a problem." 

"Very nice." 

They walk steadily back to the lift, Elias holding the box under his arm. 

"You're welcome," Peter says pointedly as they walk out through the main entrance, "Hope it's an interesting one."

It isn't. It only has one word.

And anyway, two days later, late at night, they get so piss drunk on the beach that Elias forgets his reading in the sand. The tide swallows it and carries it away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> side note, I was just wondering how the dig leitner washed up on a beach. so, now you know. Elias got drunk and lost it.


	5. 2009

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man! I almost forgot to post this. Thank you all for your support. I love reading your comments. :)  
> edit: so, i don't remember why, but i wrote this fic while interpreting peter's powers as slightly different from canon. maybe i hadn't listened far enough, maybe i just forgot--but i hope it doesn't take away from the fic. the difference is that in canon, peter mostly likely 'vanishes' into the lonely only within the place where he actually is; i used the lonely as more of a pocket dimension, from which he could emerge wherever he liked, anywhere in the world. it made sense to me. anyway, that's that :)

London, 2009

To the best of Elias' knowledge, Peter is well.

He has put off the call long enough, but he would venture to presume that calling after so long with nothing to offer but a request is... unseemly. It's a quiet evening, and he could easily enough spend it reading or Watching, as is his habit. He used to Watch people, in the past, but doesn't anymore; people have been quite the same for the past two centuries. He focuses on views. Places. Animals. 

How many friends does he have? 

Well, two. But Simon has a very open relationship with time and reality, and Elias doesn't particularly like him for longer than ten minutes at a time. (He's not even considering Rayner.) The rest--well, died off, more or less of natural causes, and Elias hasn't found their equals in anyone. Peter, though deep in the Lonely and thus likely to have a longer life than most people if he so wishes, is human and mortal; he has not lived long enough to experience the shift in perspective that Elias did, watching the world change around him. He does not understand that the world is malleable, fragile, easy to shape within your hands. Peter doesn't know. 

By all accounts, he is a completely normal human being, and yet Elias continually finds himself regarding him as an equal. 

His absence is like a thorn in his side, which is very ironic considering that they meet for about a week or two per year, then spend the rest of it apart. 

Well, at the end of the day, he only knows one sea captain. That's... still above average. 

He waits until he gets home to make the call; he sits in his small office, feet up on the desk and chair slightly tipped backwards, balanced on the back legs. 

The voicemail crows in his ear.

"Hello," he says, purposely bringing his voice down lower in case his nervousness comes through, "It's me." Wonderful. "There's something I would like to discuss with you, preferably in person. It's urgent. Let me know when you're available." He sighs and closes the phone with a snap. "Toodles," he mutters grimly. 

He sets the phone down on his desk, straightens it until it's parallel to his documents, then puts his feet back up and sways on the haphazardly balanced chair. He can feel himself growing vacant, slowly moving further away. He truly detests having to ask for anything. 

"What?" 

He jolts. The chair tips back and begins to fall, until a quick hand catches it and safely brings it back upright. Elias' feet meet the ground safely, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

He cranes his neck to see his saviour, towering over him in a thoroughly drenched black raincoat. Water is practically pouring off the edge, about knee-height, darkening the carpet. 

"Don't do that," Elias grits. 

"I don't have all day," Peter brushes the hood off his head. It sends a splash of water on the wooden floor behind him. 

His hair is stuck to his scalp, and the image of it immediately takes Elias back to '99, New Year's Eve. He chases it away. 

"You said it was urgent," Peter doesn't move an inch, dripping with almost-venomous deliberation.

"Alright," Elias stands, compulsively pulling at his shirtsleeves, "Get your coat off, at least. I want to talk to you." He blinks. "Wellies, too." 

Peter rolls his eyes and toes off his boots, then pulls the coat off his shoulders. Elias takes both from him and throws them in the bathroom, then fetches some towels to salvage his carpet and wooden floor. He passes a clean one to Peter so he can dry his hair. 

"A storm?" Elias finds himself asking as he walks to the kitchen. 

Peter drags the towel over his face and drapes it over his neck, following. 

"I wouldn't leave the Tundra in a storm," he grumbles, "It's just rain." 

Elias puts the kettle on and sits at the kitchen island. Peter takes the bar stool across from him and rests his elbows heavily on the marble counter. 

"How much time do you have?" Elias asks. 

"Half an hour, or so?" Peter squints at him. His lashes are still wet. "Be succinct." 

"All right," Elias sighs. 

He regrets he didn't have more time to prepare a tactic, but he is determined not to complain. 

"There's something you should know about," he smiles. 

Mutually beneficial. Like all of their work together. Nothing strange about this, except that it has been so long, and Elias feels strange and raw.

"I'm listening," Peter opens the box sitting on the counter and peers inside. He produces a piece of shortbread and immediately eats it. Elias has no clue how long that's been there. 

The kettle howls and he curses it for ruining his timing. He makes tea and slides Peter a cup, trying to come up with something; his mind uselessly recites the modes of persuasion. 

"Hungry?" he asks. 

"No," Peter replies, eating more shortbread. 

He sips his tea. 

His eyes slowly glide about Elias' apartment. Elias realises he has never been here before; he idly wonders whether he should investigate how Peter knew exactly where to find him, but really, he doesn't mind enough to bother. There is a part of him that has always enjoyed being on display, even though he has learned to avoid it. This breach of his boundaries is a pleasant, refreshing surprise. 

"Peter, we have always worked well together," he begins, and tries not to frown. Credibility--not his strong suit. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Peter looks at him. "We have, yes." 

"And last--two years ago," he winces slightly, "What happened?" 

Peter shrugs. "Nothing." 

"Nothing?" Elias blinks, "Nothing happened?"

"You didn't call me for two years. Which wasn't exactly unwelcome, you really are exhausting to be around," Peter takes another drink of his tea, "But now I'm honestly a little confused." 

"You're not upset with me, by any chance?" Elias raises his eyebrows. 

Peter has finished his tea. Elias slides his own cup over to him. 

"Not at all," Peter says between sips, "We have a pleasant working relationship." 

"Then why didn't you call?"

Peter's cup stops halfway down to the table. His grey eyes drill into Elias. 

"Did you want me to call?" he asks. 

Elias is suddenly aware that the ice under his feet is much thinner than he thought. Something is off about Peter, and his first instinct is to reach out and See--but he stops himself. 

He really shouldn't take any chances.

"Yes, of course," he manages finally, "We are friends, are we not, Peter? We get along." 

A strange thing to say to someone in your kitchen, drinking your tea, with your towel over their shoulders. A strange thing to say to someone who came to your aid within moments simply because you used the word 'urgent'. 

Are they both cowards? It's not a word Elias would use to describe himself. Peter, maybe--he's certainly thought it before, but after all, Peter is not the only one who avoided the confrontation. 

"We do get along," Peter agrees flatly. 

Elias looks at the clock. Minutes are ticking by. He didn't have time to prepare, he doesn't know what to say. He always makes it so that he has time. He always plans. 

"The Spiral's ritual is only a few months away," he says finally, giving up on pretense, "Naturally, my Archivist has a plan to stop it, but she needs help getting to the location. I thought you might find this interesting." 

"Why would I want to stop the Spiral?" Peter blinks. 

Elias thinks on that, and promptly remembers Peter has never mentioned planning his own ritual. He had always attributed it their intrinsic rivalry, but that was foolish. Peter tells him everything. 

"Would you not want your own ritual to succeed?" he asks.

"I haven't thought about it," Peter looks down into the cup. 

Elias holds back the urge to roll his eyes. 

"Well--"

"The way I see it, Elias," the way he says his name has bite to it. Elias distantly tries to figure out what he did wrong. "The Spiral threatens your patron, and you want my help. Very well. I will grant it, happily--for a price." 

"I thought a 'please' might do," Elias flashes him a smile. It has before. 

Peter doesn't smile back. "That's not good enough." 

He sighs, easily giving way. He was prepared for this. "Very well. Name it." 

"You won't like it." 

"Come now, Peter," he clicks his tongue, "You sound like you're about to ask for my firstborn." 

"The price is a favour," Peter says, "Whatever I wish, whenever I wish it. Once." 

Elias snorts. "Absolutely not." 

"Buy some ferry tickets, then." He leans on the counter, as if to get up. 

"It's not--," Elias reaches forward and stops him, "You cannot simply travel there. Not through... ordinary means."

It's already more than he wanted to share so quickly. A frustrating thought, that Peter can play him; worst of all, he knows it. Elias will remedy that, but not right now. 

Peter sits. "Lovely. And you're asking this of me, with nothing to give in return? That's very 'you'." 

He feels annoyance at the accuracy rise within him. 

"I told you to name your price." 

"And I told you what I want. A favour." 

"No, you're asking for a blank cheque." He grits his teeth at Peter's expression. "You're asking for trust. Do I have to spell everything out for you?" 

Peter shrugs, slow and purposeful. Elias closes his eyes so he won't boil over. 

"You'll do it?" he asks slowly. 

Peter chuckles. "Yes." 

"For a favour." 

"Yes." 

Elias blinks. Why was his first instinct dismissal? He is not obligated to hold up his end of the bargain in any way. It's perfect, really, a loophole so obvious it almost feels like a trap, but what is stopping him? A favour. Even if it ends in breaking this friendship, who will be responsible? Elias does not enjoy lying, but he's hardly above it.

He grits his teeth. He is not loyal to Peter Lukas. The only thing Peter holds over him is the money, and that comes from Nathaniel. Maybe he should take the deal. 

How would he say it, if he were to say it? 'I have missed you'. Incorrect. 'I have not enjoyed your absence.' Warmer.

"Done," Elias puts a hand forward. 

Peter reluctantly shakes it, then withdraws. 

"I'll give you the details later," Elias clears his throat, "I don't want to keep you. They get rather... muddy." 

Peter turns his gaze away and begins to smoke from his collar. Elias begins to wonder what favour he could possibly ask for; why Peter suddenly demanded one. It eats at him, chews through his bones, not the obligation but the idea itself. 

"The earliest I can go is in five weeks," Peter mumbles. "We can meet again before then." 

Elias swallows. "That will do." 

"I'm not doing this for free, Elias," he adds softly. A childish, telling thing. Elias notices it and stores it for later consideration.

*

Three weeks pass. Elias doesn't call him, out of consideration for his patron, and he is rewarded when Peter shows up unprompted. 

He is cold all over, Elias can feel it off him. He looks fed. Softer about the eyes, calmer. He takes his coat off and rolls his neck with a sigh, then walks over to the window and takes in the view of the streetlights below. Elias doesn't live particularly high up, but enough for the light pollution to brush off on Peter's face, orange-red. The sky is yellowed, and there is no moon.

"It's called Sannikov Land," Elias says.

Peter sighs. "Sannikov Land is a fairytale." 

"I told you it couldn't be reached by normal means," he leans his shoulder against the glass pane and looks into Peter's face. "Gertrude will give you a map. It's old, but reliable. And one other thing," he shifts, "You can't talk to Gertrude's assistant. At all."

"I wasn't planning on it," Peter furrows his brow. 

"No games, Peter," Elias continues anyway, soft but firm, "No sending him away. And nothing that could indicate to him the true nature of your destination." 

"Why?" 

He looks at the building on the other side of the street. There's someone washing dishes in a bright window. "He will play a part in stopping the ritual." 

Peter thinks on it. He looks relaxed; dressed in dark, casual clothes, his grey-streaked black hair the same mess it always is. 

"Sannikov Land," he says with a sigh, then pushes the glass pane aside and steps out onto the balcony. 

The cold wind pushes inside. Elias quickly steps out with him and tugs the pane almost fully closed to preserve the warmth inside. His thin dress shirt is decidedly not enough to withstand the temperature, but he decides to ignore it. 

Peter gets his silver cigarette box from his pocket and lights one, puffing on it. He offers the box to Elias.

"No, thank you," he mutters absently. 

"Suit yourself." Peter leans against the metal railing of the balcony. "You know something interesting about Sannikov Land? It's supposed to be a reflection. A mirage of Bennet Island." 

"Bennet?" Elias makes a face, "I knew a Bennet." 

"Did you really? Elizabeth, by any chance? With a gaggle of sisters?" 

"Very funny, but the timeframe is right." 

Peter raises an eyebrow, but lets it go. "It's a common enough thing at sea, you know. It's how the myth of the Flying Dutchman got started, too." 

Elias moves closer. "I'm familiar with that theory, yes." 

"And you don't think this is another case of you seeing things that aren't there?" Peter tips his head back. 

Elias doesn't look away. "I can show you the research." 

Peter cracks and laughs a little, turning his face away and scratching at his beard. Elias smiles.

It's such an odd thing to joke about. It should be uncomfortable, but it's mostly exciting. And a little sad. 

"You won't be coming, will you?" Peter asks, smoke spewing from his mouth in a giant cloud that gets swept away almost immediately.

"Sadly not."

"Ah. Well. I look forward to meeting your Archivist." 

Elias snickers. "Just don't let her intimidate you." 

Peter furrows his brow in question, but when Elias fails to elaborate, he loses interest. He puts his cigarette out on the railing and tosses the butt over the edge. 

The favour resurfaces in Elias' mind. He doesn't want to cross Peter; he's done worse things for a lesser reward, certainly, but he would be lying to himself if he said he didn't enjoy Peter's company. Peter's trust, even, he would hazard--but this is no longer something he likes putting into words, not even in thought. Words are too clear. They bring out the truth from a confusing haze of feelings and intentions which he prefers to leave in their honest, raw state. Unknowable without names. 

It's too early to talk about running away from things. He does not reach for Peter's mind, doesn't offer his own. This will do. 

A favour. As if Peter would ever ask for a favour. As if he hasn't turned down Elias' help time and time again. Peter gives and gives and hates taking so much that Elias has, on occasion, mistaken it for kindness. Peter hates that even more. 

Elias realises, belatedly, that maybe that's the point. No more kindness, only business transactions.

He almost laughs.


	6. 2011

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! sorry for the wait.

somewhere on the Baltic Sea, 2011

"You have a ship," Elias enunciates, "I simply don't see why we have to take a ferry." 

It's one of the last trips they share before things start to go downhill, and Elias has all but forgotten the damned favour. Peter's sunglasses reflect the clear blue sky. It's a hot, searing day, and the air is still and suffocating. The white deck of the ferry feels like a frying pan. 

"It's not a damn icebreaker, now, is it?" Peter asks lazily, a pleasant scratchiness to his voice. "It needs some repairs. Besides, no giant, pillowy beds on the Tundra, I'm afraid. And since I know that is your preference..." 

Elias rolls his eyes. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but as far as I can tell, and that is, indeed, quite far--there are no giant pillowy beds here, either." 

"You didn't get one? Very sad." 

Elias finally loses his patience and tosses a towel at him. Peter's gut rises and falls with laughter as he shields his drink with his arm, unsuccessfully; liquid splashes on the deck.

Elias watches as he puts his half-spilled drink down on the ground between their loungers and flicks his hand at it, then unceremoniously wipes his fingers on the very same towel Elias threw. He makes disdainful noises as he does so, mouth turned into a frown beneath his no-name shades. He's picked the most unremarkable clothes one could wear on a ferry--white shorts and a light, patterned shirt with sleeves that squeeze his biceps. He looks like a garden gnome, beard and all, so Elias laughs.

He turns onto his side on the lounger, watching as Peter does his best to mop up the spilled drink with broad, awkward motions. The sun is beating down on them; he does not tan at all, Elias knows, but instead gets a furious red sunburn on his nose, forearms and knees. 

Elias himself is hidden fully in the shadow of a giant beach umbrella, as covered as he can be without sweating to death. He hates summer. 

Peter idly licks his fingers clean. It's disgusting. It's just another in a queue of a thousand other disgusting little things he does, and Elias wishes he could be more annoyed by it than he is. He cannot, in retrospect, believe he ever got so used to Peter Lukas simply... being Peter Lukas. 

"Besides, and more importantly," Peter looks up, "If Salesa caught wind of the Tundra following him, how do you think he would react?"

Elias rolls his eyes. "That's hardly my fault, now, is it?" 

"Hey! He lost that money, fair and square," Peter slaps his hands on his thighs, "I'm only collecting." 

Elias sniffs, exasperated. "Because you need it ever so desperately." 

"Keep that up, and you'll be hitchhiking," Peter points at him, "Not lounging like a cat in the sun." 

Elias can't argue with that. "As long as you don't confiscate his artifacts, do as you will with him. We should catch him soon." 

The towel sits in a wet and crumpled heap. Peter ignores it and lies back on the lounger, intertwining his fingers over his stomach. 

"The least you could do is get me another drink," he adds matter-of-factly, awkwardly repositioning his head to look at Elias. 

Elias' own reflection looks back at him, doubled, and he has to smile. He likes this face. 

"What were you having? I don't remember," he asks, as an afterthought.

Peter looks thoroughly offended. "A piña colada!" 

Elias sighs and drags himself to his feet, already trying to decide on a drink for himself, as well. He doesn't frequent bars as often as he used to, except to build connections he might benefit from later, and he honestly can't remember anything he particularly enjoyed. He flip-flops his way down the stairs and over the blinding white deck with grim determination, ignoring the heat of sunlight in his hair. Everything's far too bright, even in his sunglasses.

As he orders, his attention is drawn by the distinct feeling of someone watching him, and he looks up. The perpetrator, a woman he doesn't recognise, is already facing away. 

"Blended or shaken?"

"Hmm...?" he turns back to the bartender.

"Blended or shaken, sir?" 

"Oh, I don't know. Blended." He shrugs.

The woman is looking again, this time with her head tilted slightly to the side. 

The bartender nods and gets to work while Elias studies the stranger. She's wearing a satin top and dark trousers, and she has a strange, pink mess of a relatively new scar on the side of her head. He does not know her. 

She is now watching him with keen, open interest. Not a knowing one, maybe, but there is something familiar - almost magnetic - about her. He thinks he'd like to talk to her. 

"Actually, make that two," Elias says, "But the other one shaken." 

The bartender gives him a look and shakes up another one. He sets the two glasses on the counter.

"Room?" 

"13." 

The bartender blinks. "I'm afraid I'm going to need your key, sir." 

"Oh, yes, of course," Elias reaches into his pocket and finds, naturally, that he didn't take Peter's key. He sighs. "Would you please wait a moment?" he smiles at the bartender.

He closes his eyes. About fifteen seconds later, Peter Lukas comes lumbering down the stairs, his sunglasses still on his face and brow furrowed.

"How hard is it to fetch one drink?" he asks, with only a little bite to it, and slaps the key onto the counter before settling down onto one of the bar stools with an obnoxious sigh. 

The bartender scurries to put it on his tab. 

Unconcerned, Peter picks up the blended piña colada and takes a sip of it, holding the glass by the rim like the alcoholic he is.

When Elias' gaze slides over the spot where he saw the woman, it's empty. He sits up and Looks properly this time, but she is gone, even when he lets his perception trail over the corridors.

"What?" Peter raises his eyebrows at him.

Elias shakes his head and plucks the sunglasses from Peter's nose, then folds them and slides them into the open neck of his hideous shirt.

"You look like such a fucking tourist," he says through his teeth. 

Peter scowls up at him.

"Pay for my drink, at least," he deflects. 

"It'd still be your money," Elias chuckles. 

Peter hesitates with his mouth half-open, them goes back to drinking, apparently deeming the matter beneath him. Elias picks his own glass up from the counter and clinks it against Peter's, who doesn't appear to notice, looking something on his phone. 

"Cheers," Elias mutters, smiling, then glances over his shoulder. 

"Hey," Peter gently smacks him away. 

"'How long does it take to build an apartment building...'," he reads from the screen, ducking the next blow expertly.

"Get away from me," Peter mutters, not very convincingly. He puts his phone away. "Would it kill you to stay out of my business, for once?"

"This far from the Institute?" Elias raises his eyebrows, "I consider you a packed lunch."

Peter goes straight for his ribs, jabbing his fingers into the sensitive flesh underneath. 

"Fine, fine," Elias jumps away, grabbing his hand to hold it at a distance, "My God, you're a child!" 

"That makes sense. You're over twice my age." Peter smiles. "You're old enough to be my father." 

Elias shudders. "Never bring that to my attention again." 

"Grandfather, even." 

"Peter, I'm warning you." 

"Fine," he shrugs, "It was only a thought." 

Elias looks ar his face. His hair is going grey, with only a few strands and patches of black left in it; his beard is similar, though more irregular. Elias absently wonders if he'll die soon--or, perhaps, become one of the few Lukases that lived a few extra decades, kept alive by their connection to the Lonely. 

Peter doesn't look his age, that's one thing in his favour. He looks like he just went grey in his forties or fifties. 

"What are you thinking about?" Peter looks up at him. Elias only now notices some sunburn on his nose. 

"Mortality," he replies lightly. 

Peter rolls his eyes. "Just once, I wish you'd say 'cat videos', or 'lunch'." 

He shrugs. He is somewhat hungry. "I could go for lunch." 

"Let me finish my drink," Peter takes a large sip. 

"I got you two--" Elias turns to point, but the second glass is gone. He shuts his mouth. Had the woman--?

When he turns back around, Peter has finished the glass. He picks the key off the counter and deposits it in his back pocket, then stands. 

"Well, come on," he says, and shoots him an accidentally warm smile. Elias knows he slipped up, because a second later he turns away, heading down the corridor alone. 

Elias catches up to him in an awkward British trot. Another few weeks of this. 

He doesn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been a while! I worked on a lot of other fics in the meantime, including lighthouse au, and mine and ink's murder ballet au, which you should definitely check out.  
> As for trompe, I'm certain I have messed up the timeline. Sorry. I just wanted them to go on another trip. This is all this fic is, really. Elias and Peter going on trips together.  
> EDIT: fixed some inaccuracies.


End file.
